Cursing under my breath, I climb down the steps and walk toward the Harley. I can’t access the back yard unless I climb over the wall, not that I expect the back door to be open. Anyway, the wall is too high.
Biting my nail, I consider my options. I don’t have a choice but to wait. Either I sit out here, or I get back into the car. I only debate with myself for a moment before I return to the car and climb inside. Sinking low in the seat, I keep an eye on the door.
My mom brings me because it gives her an alibi.
I was visiting a friend from the charity foundation, Gus.
Violet and I had tea at the retirement home where I delivered cookies.
Gus must think my mom will never have the nerve to cheat on him, because we both know what will happen to her if he finds out. He made that very clear when he took me to an abandoned warehouse at the age of twelve. A naked man was kneeling on the dirty floor, his hands tied behind his back. Blood ran from cuts on his torso. The man cried, begging for his life and asking for mercy for his family. Gus instructed him to tell me why he was being punished. The man said he was going to pay back the money, that it was just a temporary loan. Gus grabbed my ponytail and forced me to face the man, telling me to look. I was too scared of my stepfather to close my eyes, so I watched as he took out his gun and shot the man in the head.
No matter how hard I try to banish the image, it comes back to haunt me at times like these. I’ll never forget the stink of human excrement mixed with the rotten odor of meat and blood. A hint of soot rose from the charcoal dust on the floor, but the smoke from the coal fire that burned in a drum outside didn’t mask the smell of pain and death inside. If smell had a color, that warehouse would be smoky black with harsh shadows and sticky layers of red. Sometimes, it’s still in the air when I take a deep breath. Whether it’s the sharp smoke from the winter fires blowing in from the south or the fatty smoke from a weekend barbecue rising from behind the neighbor’s wall, when I close my eyes, I smell it. I see it. I see it now. That’s why I keep my eyes open.
A shiver runs over me as the sun sinks below the gable roof with the peeling red paint. I close the window and press the button to lock the doors. It’s the wise thing to do, especially in dangerous neighborhoods. Especially when the purple twilight will soon grow black.
The noise of a motorbike sounds in the distance. That’s when I become aware of how quiet it is. No kids are playing outside, and no women are chatting over the fences. Men aren’t drinking beer on the patios. The street is devoid of teenagers balancing blaring boomboxes on their shoulders. The hair on my nape stands on end as the sound of the engine turns louder.
A single headlight flashes in the rearview mirror. The biker parks a short distance away. It’s a Suzuki, a new model. He jumps off without cutting the engine or removing his helmet and makes his way to the house. Dressed in black leather, he looks like a reaper of death. The smell from the past turns pungent in the car. It’s as real as the erratic beating of my heart. I fumble with the button to unlock the doors, pressing it twice before I get it to work. All but falling from the high seat, I stumble to the ground.
I want to scream and call my mom’s name, but I can’t make a sound. I’m back in the warehouse with Gus daring me to utter as much as a chirp as he pulls the trigger and the naked man’s sobbing goes quiet. All that’s left is the silence, my silence, as the man in black kicks down the door.
CHAPTER 7
Leon
Usually, I like to take the Harley out on Saturdays and hit the open road. Sometimes, I drive to Dullstroom that’s renowned for its trout fishing spots. At other times, I head to the Potchefstroom Dam and watch the students being young.
I don’t think I’ve ever been young. My dad was violent and my mother resentful. My brothers, sister, and I learned to be invisible and autonomous from a young age. Carefree was never a word in my vocabulary. The responsibility of scavenging food from somewhere to fill my belly weighed on my shoulders before I learned to read the alphabet. My life has always been about survival—at first, not to starve to death, and later, not get myself killed in a robbery. Maybe that’s why I hit the road on Saturdays. I’m still chasing carefreeness. I have all the money I could ever need, and yet I don’t know what it means to feel truly free. Perhaps I’m just putting kilometers on the clock to ease the restlessness inside me.